


Lead Astray

by RoozetteR



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Explicit Language, F/F, F/M, M/M, Sexual Content, Slash sex, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-05
Updated: 2008-07-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 11:41:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10162319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoozetteR/pseuds/RoozetteR
Summary: Harry gets turned into a creature and goes slightly dark. (shrug) Why not?





	1. A Simple Twist Of Fate

**Author's Note:**

> Note from SeparatriX, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [HP Fandom](http://fanlore.org/wiki/HP_Fandom_\(archive\)), which was closed for health and financial reasons. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [HP Fandom collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hpfandom/profile).

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. Just playing with Rowling's characters because they're ever so much fun to manipulate ;)

Sooo…I should be updating my other stories (looks at wip’s in vague guilt) but I am feeling out of sorts and depressed so I thought I would post this instead.

It is my take on the whole “Harry turns into a creature” and “Harry goes dark” genre. So, in case that wasn’t a suitable enough warning. Harry will turn into a creature and go just a bit dark. This will end up a Harry/Draco, which indicates SLASH, and will be much darker than anything else I have ever written. Seriously. And I know dark fics aren’t for everyone, so I promise not to take offense it you review me simply to curse me or pray for my immortal soul. 

Like my other stories, I tend to start off slow and build up steam as the story progresses. Draco won’t be involved until around chapter five, and you may hate me for the way I bring him in. Sorry. But please feel free to review and tell me your thoughts. All other stories will be updated as soon as I snap out of my funk. Which may be a few days.

Kisses and Love!  
Roo

HDHDHD

 

Oddly enough, it was Ginny who allowed him to feel something other than pain or shame.

The journal had come to him the day after Sirius had slipped through the veil. Holding it in his hands, feeling the smooth leather of the bindings, seeing the bold slash of Sirius’ handwriting; Harry had very nearly not opened it. To open the book would solidify the fact that Sirius was gone forever and his solicitor was following pre established orders to deliver it. But he had. He had opened it. And he had read the first page. Still reeling from the events of the day before, Harry had learned why Sirius had been chosen as his godfather instead of Lupin or even Pettigrew. Because he was his father’s best friend, yes. And because he knew his mothers’ secret. The secret she had told no one, and would not have even told Sirius if he hadn’t overheard something he was never meant to hear. 

It wasn’t an earth shattering secret, especially compared against real problems. Harmless, really. Subtle. But it certainly had the potential to destroy, or at the very least tarnish, his parents marriage. Because James Potter wasn’t his father. And Sirius had known. And had loved him anyway. And had still risked everything for him. He’d known, and he’d kept Lily’s secret. Celebrated with James. Smiled for the pictures. Because, as he’d written, sometimes being a friend meant knowing something painful, and knowing it was best to keep your mouth shut. It was at this point Harry had slammed the journal shut; unable to stand the sight of Sirius’ handwriting with the pain and shock and confusion swirling so violently inside him. Nearly desperate with the need to discuss this with someone who cared about him, and wouldn’t judge him or his mother. He didn’t think he could stand that right now. 

Ron and Hermione were easy enough to find, as they were still confined to the infirmary due to their injuries. Harry sat there, paying attention with half an ear as they bantered and joked with Neville, Luna, and Ginny. Luna had looked at him in that eerie way she had, and then silently hid herself behind her magazine. Neville hadn’t noticed anything amiss; neither had Ron. Hermione was too distracted by her injuries, the newspaper, and the new information learned to pay too much attention to anything. Ginny had looked at him with sparkling eyes as they both muffled their laughter at Umbridge’s response to the Centaur noise, and that minute connection was enough to make her brown eyes sharpen with curiosity. Shortly thereafter, Harry had fled, desperate for escape, when Hermione had flung the Sunday edition of the Prophet down in disgust and the conversation had turned, naturally enough, to Voldemort and prophecies and Sirius. It was too new, too raw. He couldn’t talk about Sirius. Not now. Maybe not ever. 

And then he was in the hallway with Malfoy, and all the confusion was burned down in the face of his anger. Satisfaction welled as a flash of fear crossed Malfoy’s face. Bitter pleasure as the flush of anger marred those smooth perfect features. The acidic burn of anger intensified when Snape interfered. Harry brushed past McGonagall and headed for the relative safety of Hagrid’s hut, not really caring if Malfoy or his cronies chose to follow him. Welcomed it, in fact, as it would provide a nice distraction from all this crappy feeling. When the hand gripped his arm, he had turned with his wand drawn and a curse on the tip of his tongue. Only to blink in sudden confusion.

“Ginny?”

She bit her lip, looking behind her nervously, before thrusting a thick envelope in his hand. “I wrote you a note.”

“Great.” He sighed bitterly. “Another note. Just what I need. Tell me,” he cocked his head to the side in a mockery of polite inquiry. “Does this also contain revelations that will shatter my concept of reality?” Ginny blanched. Harry’s lips parted in shock. “Oh God it does. Doesn’t it?”

“I know what you’re feeling right now,” Ginny said softly. Harry’s expression immediately blanked. Ginny grimaced. “No, I actually think I might. You feel like you have no real place in the world. And that might not be a bad thing, because you really don’t want to be a part of this crueler reality.”

Green eyes narrowed. “When have you ever felt like that?” He sounded bitter, but he couldn’t help it. Ginny was the baby, the only girl; pampered and adored by the whole family. Except for her first year of schooling, nothing extraordinary or earth shattering had happened to her. Ever. 

Ginny ignored his question. “Don’t shut me out,” she said softly, holding up her hand as Harry started to interrupt. “Read the letter. I wrote it… oh Merlin, I wrote it nearly two years ago and have added to it as things progressed. Don’t shut me out,” she repeated fiercely. 

“Gin,” Harry closed his eyes, running his hand through his hair in frustration. “I nearly got you killed. All of you. And now with this stupid proph…” he stopped himself.

“I figured you’d heard it by now.”

“What?” He looked at her carefully neutral face sharply. 

“The prophecy,” she repeated calmly. “You have heard it by now, haven’t you?”

Harry stared at her incredulously; far too shocked to care about how stupid he may sound. “You heard the prophecy?”

Ginny smiled a secret little smile. “I’ve always known the prophecy.” She started backing away. “Read the letter.”

Torn between staring at the letter in his hand and the retreating form in front of him, Harry did nothing but stand there. “Wait!” But Ginny was gone; running back to the castle without a backward glance. Harry had stuffed the letter in his pocket, gone to visit Hagrid as had been his previous intention, and once again fled as Sirius’ name had come up far too often. He’d retreated to the far side of the lake, deliberately selecting a spot isolated from the giggling students basking in the late afternoon sunlight. Countless moments passed before he realized he was staring fixedly at the spot where he had rescued Sirius nearly two years before. Desperate for a change, Harry had read Ginny’s letter.

And his pain was replaced by shock. And the first faint stirrings of hope.

Slightly calmer, he sat and gazed unseeingly at lake; worrying and planning over his future. Over the twist his life had unexpectedly taken. Kill or be killed. It was cold by the time he felt stable enough to return to the castle. Cold, with a bite to the wind that hinted at winter instead of a June evening. Harry shivered, walking just a tad quicker away from the lake, when a flash of movement from the Forbidden Forest caught his attention. A Thestral. He’d forgotten about them in the ensuing chaos at the ministry and Sirius… He stopped that thought cold, unwilling to feel the rush of grief again, unwilling to feel anything, really. Without being consciously aware of his actions, Harry followed the Thestral through the forest, watching as it joined its herd.

He watched them numbly. Observing the awkward grace of their bodies, the fluidity of their movements, the way they seemed to connect to their environment, yet remained so singularly detached. But these Thestrals were different than others; Hagrid had tamed them. Such a contradiction of ideals. Harry could relate. Born wild; raised in captivity. Like the boa at the zoo. Like him. Far, far too often in his life he’d felt like nothing more than a walking oxymoron. The freakish boy who was a hero. The ungainly teen that was destined for more. He smiled bitterly over the fact that he felt more intone with animals than with his peers. But should beasts be tamed? Should he? After all, it was these very same tamed beasts that had submitted to teenagers and led them to a fight for their lives. Because Harry had been tricked. Had let himself be tricked. And used that deception to manipulate beasts equally tamed as himself.

Anger, hot fierce and alive, bubbled up inside him. Wild beasts shouldn’t be tamed. Bad things happened when baser instincts were ignored or suppressed. Would he have gone to the ministry if he had been taught to analyze instead of simply following the ebb and flow of emotion? Would these beasts have taken hapless teenagers to the ministry if they had not been tamed into believing their purpose was to serve others? Without thinking, contradicting himself, Harry picked up a rock and threw it as hard as he could into the clearing. It hit the flank of a Thestral with a heavy thunk; causing all the surrounding Thestrals to slowly turn to look at Harry.

Heedless of the tears falling freely from his eyes, Harry picked up another rock. And another. Sobbing as he heaped abuse upon the animals he identified with. Unable, too weak, to heap the abuse upon himself. “Why aren’t you running?” he shouted desperately, throwing rocks, braches, clumps of dirt; anything he could get his hands on. “Why are you still here? Why are you letting others dictate how you think, what you do, where you live? How can you stand knowing you helped lead someone to death? How can you even justify breathing?”

So caught up in his bubble of misery, Harry failed to notice the biggest Thestral of the pack inching closer and closer. Failed to notice, that is, until fangs clamped around his side and shook lightly, ripping the flesh beneath. The coppery sweet scent of blood made his nostrils flare and tickled the back of his throat. Too late he remembered Hagrid telling the class Thestrals wouldn’t attack humans without provocation. “Oh.” Harry stared down at his side in shock. His knees buckling as the pain finally reached his brain and set his nerves on fire. 

The Thestrals gathered closer, communicating silently with each other as the watched him stagger and lean against a tree for support. And then one of them did the unthinkable. It stepped forward, intelligent eyes studying Harry, bent its head, and licked the wound. Harry whimpered, trying unsuccessfully to shove the beasts away as more inched closer and nudged against his bleeding flesh. “Sorry,” Harry whispered, pushing weakly at the animals as black spots flickered in front of his eyes. “Sorry,” he repeated dazedly. “So sorry. Sorry Sirius, Mum, Dad, Cedric. Sorry sorry sorry…”

All he could see was black, bat like wings as the Thestrals surrounded him. Nipping and licking at his wound as a haze seemed to smother his brain and still his movements. His focus narrowed. His world consisting entirely of the fire spreading from his wound and the glowing eyes of the animals before him. “Sorry sorry sorry. So sorry. Didn’t mean to. Didn’t mean anything.” Beyond caring what he was apologizing for, or whether or not he would even survive this altercation, Harry leaned further upon the mass of bodies surrounding him and passed out.

It was dark when he regained consciousness. Dark yet oddly comfortable. Harry opened his eyes slowly, groggily, wincing as the faintest of movements pulled against the ruined flesh of his abdomen and caused blood to seep in a lazy slide once again. Instantly, glowing eyes appeared in the darkness. Studying him, watching him as he pushed away and staggered drunkenly to his feet. Seeming almost smug in their silence as they allowed his to leave the dubious safety of the clearing. Harry felt… weird. Lighter and heavier all at once. And even clumsier than normal; like his balance had abruptly shifted. But he couldn’t go to the Hospital Wing. Ron and Hermione were there. Madame Pomphrey was there. Going to the infirmary would mean questions, comments, sidelong glances. He could handle that about as much as he could handle talking about Sirius. By the time Harry made his way to Gryffindor Tower, he was chalk white, shaking, and his shirt was drenched with a disgusting mess of blood, sweat, and saliva. So, instead, he cleaned himself up in the bathroom as best he could, wrapped an old sweater tightly around his waist to stem the flow of blood, and tumbled into a feverish sleep.

The next few days had Harry ignoring his slowly healing wound as best he could as he sent and received owls. Trying, best he could, to establish a future for himself that would appease everyone. Ron and Hermione left the Hospital Wing three days before the end of term and, aside from a sympathetic or understanding gaze, made no comment on how pale and withdrawn Harry had become. Hermione narrowed her eyes when she saw Harry trembling, and innocently began dishing up his plate for him with generous portions. Ron tried staying awake nights to ensure Harry wasn’t suffering from nightmares again, but the pain potions and medications he was on had him snoring long before Harry snuck off to the bathroom to change his makeshift bandages. Ginny cast him searching glances when she thought he wasn’t looking, but made no further move to approach him. It was his turn.

Finally they were standing at King’s Cross, and Harry watched with a sense of undeserved emotion as Lupin and members of the Order threatened the Dursley’s. With one last smile for his friends, he quietly followed his family to the car. “Awful bloody nerve,” Vernon mumbled as he loaded Harry’s luggage hap hazardously into the boot. 

Harry winced as he sat down and placed Hedwig’s cage gently on his lap; the familiar tightening of skin telling him that after the train ride his wound had once again opened. “Uncle Vernon?” he quietly asked. A scowl in the rear view mirror was his response. Ignoring this reaction, Harry withdrew a twenty pound note from his pocket and held it up for inspection. “There’s been a slight change in plans. I need you to drop me off at Grimmauld Place, and then take Aunt Petunia out for a coffee before you head back to Surrey.”

Vernon glared at Harry through the mirror. “And why, boy, would I do that?”

“Because then you would not have to deal with me for the summer, or next summer, or the summer after that.” Harry kept his voice unemotional, ignoring Petunia’s start of surprise as he focused his attention solely on his uncle’s greedy eyes. 

“Done with you, eh?”

“Yep.”

“For good?”

“Yep.”

“Grimmauld Place, eh?”

“Yep.”

Dizzy, Harry swayed slightly from side to side as he watched his uncle’s car speed away. Maybe he should have eaten more in the last week. Or slept more. It had been far far too light in Gryffindor Tower to sleep the night through. He looked up at the dark house before him, questioning his decision to live here for the thousandth time. But, he reflected wryly, it was too late to back out now. Sirius was gone, he was here, and there was no way in hell he would ever beg the Dursley’s to take him back and lock him in a small room for the duration of summer vacation. One hand clutching his bloody side, the other clinging to his trunk and Hedwig’s cage, Harry slowly made his way up the steps before him. Carefully removing his hand from his side, he twisted the knob and felt an electric shock shoot up his arm. The door shuddered violently, emitting a strange humming noise, before falling silent. Harry watched in horrified fascination as the blood, his blood, absorbed into the doorknob. Beginning to question the wisdom of opening a house previously owned by a dark family with a blood soaked hand, Harry was given no chance to back down before the door swung open in silent invitation.

Still he hesitated. The house was quiet. And seemed… to be waiting. Expectant. Harry looked around him warily before mustering up his courage, stepping through the entryway, and shutting the door silently behind him. The minute the door clicked into place, the house seemed to breathe a quiet sigh and settle into place. It felt different. Like home. 

“No,” an appalled voice uttered to his left. Harry turned and found himself looking into the oddly alert eyes of Walburga Black. Her frame literally vibrating against the wall with shock. “No,” slowly her head shook from side to side. “It can’t be.”

“What?” Harry asked, wincing as his wound gave an unpleasant twinge. He glanced at his side in concern. Should his bite still be emitting blood almost a week after receiving it? 

Walburga ignored his question, eyes following Harry’s movements. She stared from his bloody hand to the door. “Should have known that fool son of mine would do something like this.” She scowled. “And here I told Orion to formally disown him, didn’t I? Burned him off the family tree, I did. Washed my hands of him all together. But that damn husband of mine couldn’t be arsed to care to keep him away from our family’s legacy. And now we’re stuck with you.”

Harry pushed his trunk to the side of the hallway, exhausted after the trip from school and the emotions rolling through him. “What are you babbling about now?” he asked wearily; idly wondering if he would be able to shut the hangings over her frame by himself.

High pitched crackly laughter followed this question. Walburga shook her head at him. “You don’t even know what you’ve done, do you?” Harry looked at her blankly. Sighing, she swung one side of her portrait away from the wall, revealing a cubby hole filled with papers. “Go on then,” she said irritably. “I’ll not be hanging open all day.”

“You can move?” Harry questioned bemusedly, thinking of all the wasted hours spent trying to get her off the wall. He looked at the papers in his hand in tired confusion. “What’s all this?”

She gestured to his bloody hand and back at the door. “In one fell swoop you claimed your inheritance and transferred all warding over this place to you.” Harry still looked confused. “Welcome to adult hood, Harry Potter. Or,” her smirk turned slightly evil. “Should I say Lord Black?”

“Lord Black?” Harry stared at the smirking woman before sinking onto the stairs and rubbing at his temples. “Great,” he muttered to himself. “Just great. First Sirius, then mum, then Ginny, now this.” He shook his head bleakly, cursing the prevailing weakness in his body. “What else is going to happen to me before I break?”

Walburga laughed in genuine delight over this sentiment. “Oh you foolish boy,” she giggled happily. “Haven’t you learned by now that nothing good comes from asking questions like that?”


	2. One

Helllllloooooo my lovelies! So, now that the prologue is done, it is time for my typical start-of-the-story summary. Why? Because I am a nerd and like to announce my intentions.

1\. First off: Vampire, werewolf, kitten, veela, imp, unicorn, even, on one slightly horrifying occasion, a sloth. But I have never read a “Harry gets turned into a Thestral” story. Why is that? I always liked the Thestrals. So, guess what? Harry's going to become a half Thestral. Woot! 

2\. I am still deciding whether I want to do MPreg or FPreg. I have scenes in my mind for both, and need to make up my mind soon as the chapter to decide that will be coming up in about three chapters. What do you guys think? Please let me know, as either idea is viable right now. I’ll let you know once I decide. 

3\. The warning may go up, it just depends on how into this story I end up getting. Sometimes I get just a tab obsessive.

THANKS for all the reviews and alerts :) I was utterly blown away when I checked my mailbox and saw them all!

Loves!  
Roo

HDHDHD

It was insanely hot.

Harry moaned, kicking off his blankets and ripping at his shirt with a shaky hand as the fire roared inside his blood stream. Why was it so bloody hot? Trapped inside a raging inferno where all he smelled was blood and all he heard was the frantic thud thud of his heartbeat, Harry turned and twisted, screaming as the fire seemed to concentrate on his back and stomach. 

“Master?” The tone was grudging, reluctant. Harry couldn’t be arsed to care as he flung himself about. The sweaty sheets clung to his skin, rubbing again his raw flesh like sandpaper. “Master must to be calming down!”

He couldn’t stand it. The bed hated him, the sheets mocked him, his body rejected everything inside of him. Miserably, he hung his head over the side of the bed and vomited; his body convulsing as the bile rose thick and hot in his throat. The smell seemed more intense than usual; more vividly harsh on his sensitive nostrils. Without thinking, wanting only to escape, Harry flung himself off the bed and crawled to the corner of the room. He could feel the floorboards under the thin layer of carpet; cool and oddly soothing under his flushed and inflamed skin, the wall offering a brace of sorts to the imaginary source of his anguish. Small hands rolled him carefully onto his stomach, angling his head so that if he were to be sick again he wouldn’t choke himself. He fell asleep, finally, blissfully, to the sound of irate mutterings and the comforting coolness of the house surrounding him. 

Harry awoke to the smell of blood.

He lay there, on the carpet of the floor in Sirius’ old bedroom, and savored the slightly bitter sweetness of it all. His body ached fiercely; the skin between his shoulder blades singing a cheerful little tune of angst. His stomach, the place where the Thestrals’ sharp claws had sliced him apart so gleefully, felt tender and quivery, though not as sharply painful as it had for the last week or so. With his nose pressed to the carpet, Harry breathed deeply. The air smelled of must, dirt, and sweat. Overlaying it all, the coppery tang of blood, old and new, made his nostrils quiver and his lips twitch in a semblance of a smirk. He wondered vaguely if he was hovering on the slippery slope of mental instability, or had simply become a masochist of sorts, to find the pain in his body a source of slight relief. Whatever the case, he didn’t really care. Rocking back and forth, Harry stretched his arms over his head and moaned as his joints popped back into place. If being slightly masochistic meant pain would forever be tinged with bone melting relief and pleasure, Harry decided he really didn’t care.

Stumbling to the bathroom to relieve himself, Harry examined his reflection in the mirror thoughtfully as he washed his hands. His skin looked…stretched. And pale. Very pale. He must have lost a bit more weight at the end of the school year than he had realized. He examined his reflection a bit more closely, wondering if it was a trick of the mirror that his eyes seemed to fairly glow in the whispering darkness surrounding him. Shrugging it off, he headed downstairs to scrounge up something to eat. He nodded to Mrs. Black’s portrait on the wall, wondering why she seemed so utterly amused; when the sound of banging and muffled shouts met his ears. 

“The house has shut itself down,” Mrs. Black answered his unasked question softly. 

Harry blinked. “Shut itself down?”

“Umm,” she agreed, looking at the closed door with satisfaction. “They can see it, but until the new master adjusts the wards the house is on lockdown.”

“Oh.” Harry looked at the door, listening to the muffled banging and swearing. He looked back at where the portrait was giving him a calculating look. “I’m hungry.”

A slightly satisfied smile quirked her mouth. “Then you should eat,” she replied calmly. Her eyes strayed to the door once again; a malicious sort of happiness lighting her face up. “They will hold.”

Harry sat at the table, absently stroking the burn mark caused by the twins, remembering the shared laugher with Sirius and the colorful phrases Mundungus swore. Kreacher bowed low before him. “What would Master wish to be eating this morning?” Under his breath he mumbled fiercely; “Stupid rotten half-blood, besmirching the old and most noble house of Black. But Mistress says, Mistress says, oh my poor Mistress…”

“Shut up Kreacher,” Harry said rather stiffly. The two shared an almost identical look of loathing between them, but Kreacher obediently shut his mouth with a click. Harry continued tracing imaginary patterns over the burn mark on the table. “Meat,” he declared abruptly. “I want meat. Steak perhaps. Thick and juicy and semi rare.”

“Meat?” Kreacher looked up doubtfully. “Master wants meat? Master has never eaten meat before. Treacle Tart and pudding and foods cooked by the breeding red haired animal, but…” He trailed off as Harry glared at him. If it were possible for house elves to pale, Kreacher certainly did. “Yes Master,” he swiftly returned. “Would Master like Kreacher to turn the lights on?” He snapped his fingers.

Harry hissed in pain as the light seared his eyeballs, making everything go blurry and out of focus. “Off,” he whimpered pitifully as his shoulder blades twitched strangely. “Turn it off.”

Kreacher looked even more frightened than he had before as he hastily shut the lights back off; his nose squashing the floor as he bowed, trembling, before Harry. “Kreacher is sorry Master,” he moaned. “Half blood, half blood, what magic is this? Filthy, unnatural beast, death, disgrace, but Mistress says, Mistress says.” Kreacher bobbed his head at Harry as he backed away. “Kreacher will bring Master the finest meat, he will,” the elf babbled nervously.

Rubbing his eyes, Harry dismissed him with a wave of his hand. He hadn’t realized until that moment that he had been walking around in the dark. Able to see perfectly. It wasn’t until the light came on that he had needed his glasses. Shrugging it off as inconsequential, Harry ate his hastily served steak with relish before wandering back into the hallway and settling himself on the stairs. He sat there, leaning against the railing, listening to the muffled shouts and banging on the other side of the door, while Walburga watched him with that strangely intense look she seemed to adopt around him. 

“What am I supposed to do now?” he muttered to himself. 

“Pardon, my Lord?” 

Harry frowned at the portrait. “You’ve never liked me,” he pointed out, “and probably still don’t. No need to take that tone with me. Just call me Harry.”

If anything, Walburga’s smile seemed to sharpen. “Of course, Harry,” she soothed. “I simply wanted to clarify what you were speaking about.”

Green eyes closed wearily as Harry absently began rubbing his temples. “I just, I mean.” He frowned around the house. “I couldn’t handle the Dursley’s. I just couldn’t. And I wanted to be somewhere I could be closer to Sirius, but,” he gestured helplessly. “I opened the door with blood and suddenly I own this house, and now I am sitting here talking to a portrait, and I’m supposed to kill Voldemort and don’t know how, and, and,” he trailed off, burying his face in his hands in frustration. “What am I supposed to be doing? I thought…” he sighed.

Mrs. Black studied the bowed head intently. “Yes, Harry,” she asked softly. “What did you think?”

“I thought I would know what to do once I got here,” he admitted quietly. “I thought I would read a book, or find some rare dark artifact, and would suddenly know how to defeat Voldemort and take control of my life.” He sighed again, looking up and towards the front door. “Or at least have an idea. But I don’t know anything. I’m nothing special. And all I have done since I’ve been here is eaten and slept.” He eyed the door again. “Maybe I should just let them in.”

“Perhaps you should start with those.” She inclined her head towards the bundle of papers Harry had left on the steps last night. “After all,” she continued mildly, “you slept for quite awhile. Thirty six hours to be precise. Taking one more day before deciding what to do will certainly not hurt anyone.” 

Harry gave her a slightly suspicious look, but reached for the papers nonetheless. “What is all this?”

“Mostly information about the wards,” she continued in that same overly calm tone of voice. “Various protections and charms that have been layered over the property to ensure proper security. For example,” she gestured to the now silent front door, “the Fidelius Charm the old man put on the house still works to a certain extent. Those already told of the location of the home will retain their knowledge but will not be allowed entrance until you specifically add them. However, the Muggle loving fool will be unable to tell anyone else the secret, as your blood bond to the house overrides my son’s casual acceptance of his rules.” 

She frowned at the stubbornly silent door. “Cross to the window and tell me what you see.”

Warily, Harry crossed the hallway and peered out the curtains. He simply sighed in response.

“Yes, Harry?”

“Erm, Dumbledore’s there, of course, so’s Moony and Mr. Weasley. But… also a woman who looks a lot like Bellatrix Lestrange.” He frowned at the woman in question. “Though I suppose she does look a bit like Tonks too.”

“Tonks?” she asked sharply.

“Uh, yeah. Nymphadora Tonks. But she hates her name and likes to be called Tonks.” He frowned at the woman. “But how can she see the house? Hmm, suppose Dumbledore might have told her.”

Mrs. Black’s eyes narrowed. A cruel smile made her look slightly possessed as she gave Harry’s back another calculating look. “Foolish woman,” she muttered before raising her voice to speaking level. “She can see the house, Harry, because she is first and foremost a Black. And you summoned her. There has not been a Lord of the manor since my husband Orion.” Harry frowned, still looking out the window in confusion. “Harry, should you have accepted Sirius’ inheritance, I would have spent the rest of my days happily besmirching your name and finding ways to undermine your claim. But you didn’t accept the inheritance, you claimed it. By doing such, you are the new Lord and the Black’s are nothing if not loyal to their Lord.”

Harry jerked away from the window. “Wait? What do you mean I summoned her? You make me sound like…”

She smirked. “Like the Dark Lord? How do you think he came up with his method of communication? I have yet to meet anybody who wanted to be a pureblood as badly as he did. But you see, dear little Harry, there is a reason the purebloods stick together and share their prejudices. All the old families are bound by their blood to the lord of their manor. Narcissa, Andromeda, and Bellatrix felt it the moment you touched the door with your bloody hand. As required, they are, or should be, presenting themselves to their lord so they may reaffirm their loyalty.”

“Their loyalty,” Harry repeated dazedly.

“Umm. The Dark Lord can mark his followers and summon them to his side, but, like I said, the purebloods are bound by their blood. Should you concentrate,” her eyes wandered to the room where the Black family tapestry was prominently displayed. “Should you concentrate you can reach anyone in the Black family by merely focusing on them. The farther down the line, the less they will be bound by loyalty, but direct descendents have no choice. They will obey their blood.” Walburga studied the shocked boy before her. “As the Black heir, you are now part of their bloodline.”

“But I, I mean, they,” he floundered. “I don’t want them in my house!”

“Then you simply refuse to allow them entrance,” she calmly answered. “But they, or at least Andromeda and Narcissa, will arrive and will not leave until they speak to you,” her smile turned nasty again, “or the consequences will be dire.”

Harry studied the woman again. “What about Bellatrix? I doubt she’ll show up, especially if she finds out it’s me she has to answer to.”

“Oh,” Walburga’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “Should she ignore the summons, she will come crawling to you eventually.”

“But what am I supposed to say?” Harry whispered.

The portrait shrugged negligently. “I suppose that will come up in conversation.”

Harry hesitated again; looking between the silent woman on the lawn and the watchful Order members. Tonks appeared suddenly, moving forward to try and talk to her mother, looking hurt and shocked as she was rebuffed with a gesture. “Why isn’t Tonks allowed to stand with her mum?”

“You must accept her, any of them, before you accept their progeny.” Mrs. Black looked terribly amused. “The summons has been sent out. If they wish to continue to enjoy the Black legacy, they will pledge their loyalty to you.” She smiled again. 

Still he hesitated, looking torn. “I can’t believe I am listening to a portrait,” he grumbled. “My life has reached a new low.” He shook his head decisively. “I can’t do this today. I’m tired and sore and, and I just don’t want to.”

“Rest assured, Mr. Potter,” Walburga continued calmly, “Unless expressly given permission, they are bound by blood not to speak of this meeting.”

“Call me Harry,” he corrected absently. “Wait. So she didn’t know it was me she was trying to meet today?”

“No, Harry,” Mrs. Black answered gently. “They were summoned through their connection to the Black family. All the decedents are aware of is that a meeting would take place between themselves and the new lord of our family.”

“Why do people keep using that word?” Harry complained, rubbing at the scar on his head. “I’m not a lord, that makes me sound like…” he frowned suddenly. “So Bellatrix may show up after all?”

For the first time, Walburga looked slightly hesitant. “The Dark Lord,” she began carefully, “is woefully ignorant when it comes to particular pureblood rights.”

Harry waited. “So… what? He feels his bond is more important than her blood bond?” A single eyebrow rose in acknowledgement. “No skin off my nose.” He looked out at Andromeda. “And wasn’t she burnt off the tapestry for marrying a Muggle?”

“Being burnt off the tapestry is not the same as being removed from the family,” Walburga replied haughtily. “Were that the case, Sirius would never have been able to leave his inheritance to you.” She studied Harry curiously. “Why do you dislike my niece so much?” 

“She killed my Godfather,” Harry answered flatly.

“Ah.” They settled into an uneasy silence. “I presume you plan to disinherit Bellatrix. However, have you decided what you plan to do?”

“Do?” Harry looked confused. “Mrs. Black, you said Bellatrix would come crawling to me eventually.” He sneered. “Although considering she kill... she was the one who…” his throat constricted. “Anyway,” he said at last, “I doubt I will let her in. She can stand outside forever for all I care.”

“Harry,” the woman leaned forward in her portrait. “Correct me if I am wrong, but you do not yet understand what it means to control a powerful pureblood lineage, do you?” Evan as Harry shook his head, the faintest of giggles could be heard from the portrait. The brunette’s mouth tightened. “Harry, my nieces are tied to the house of Black. They are bound to be loyal to you. Should you summon any of them – Narcissa, Bellatrix, or Andromeda - to your side and they refuse, the consequences will be painful and weighty.” 

Harry smiled uncertainly. “I don’t get it. I’m not, I mean I wouldn’t, curse them or anything if they couldn’t make it. They might be busy or something. Or could bring their husband,” he scowled thinking of Lucius Malfoy. 

“That’s cute,” she smiled thinly. “Harry, you have the power to dissolve their marriage, reclaim their dowry, deny their child the claim to his heritage, even demand one of them produce a child with you.” She paused delicately, looking as though she was enjoying herself immensely as Harry’s eyes widened further. “Not to mention the fact that the binding to the house of Black is a blood bond. Should they be ‘busy or something’ when you summon, the pain would be excruciating.” Harry blinked at her. “When I said Bellatrix would come crawling to you eventually, I was being literal.”

Harry looked sick. “Dear God. Why can’t you people do anything normal? I don’t,” Harry raked a hand through his hair again. “Look, I appreciate you telling me all this, but I can’t deal with this today.”

Harry sighed, returning to his position by the window as the portrait continued cackling. He watched as Narcissa arrived and nodded politely to her sister; ignoring the remaining members of the Order completely, before disapparrating away the minute she realized Harry wasn’t opening his home to anyone today. Andromeda paused by the gate; hugging her daughter and running an affectionate hand over Moony’s hair before she too pulled away and apparrated. Harry accepted a sandwich from Kreacher with an absent murmur of thanks, and chewed the roast beef as he watched the gathered people. Dumbledore was no longer present; Mad Eye Moody tossed an invisibility cloak over his shoulders and moved to a shadowy corner across the street. Moony looked tired, Harry realized with a pang of guilt as he watched the man hug Tonks goodbye. 

He wandered back into the hallway and settled himself back on the bottom stair. Mrs. Black watched him eat. “Since I am the head of the Black house, Kreacher has to answer to me now, right?”

“Correct.” She cocked her head to the side, grey eyes gleaming in the shadowy light. “Do you wish to punish him?”

Harry sighed, dropping his head into his hands again. “Not right now,” he admitted. “This isn’t exactly how I thought I would spend my first day of freedom. I thought I would sleep in, walk around in my boxers if I wanted to, and then find the magical key to destroy Voldemort.” He winced, reaching back to rub at the tender skin between his shoulder blades. “I don’t understand why I’m still hurting. Although,” he pulled up his shirt, looking at the scarred flesh of his abdomen. “At least I’ve stopped bleeding.”

“What bit you?” Harry looked up, puzzled by the wide eyes and utterly still form.

“A Thestral. It was, um,” he blushed. “It was kind of my fault.” He looked around until he spotted his trunk against the wall where he had left it. “I provoked them,” he admitted as he pulled out parchment and quill and jotted off a quick note.

“That would explain the wild energy,” Mrs. Black studied Harry carefully. “And the glowing eyes.”

“Umm,” he agreed absently. “Kreacher! Take this to Ginny and Ron Weasley. No one else. And wait for a response.” He turned away once the house elf popped away. “Wait, what? Glowing eyes?”

The portrait ignored him. “Harry, go to bed. You look rather tired.”

Harry frowned, rubbing at his eyes as he sat on the step. “How long did you say I slept for?”

“Thirty six hours.”

“Then why the Hell am I so tired?” He complained bitterly. “Screw it,” he muttered, stumbling to his feet. He waved absently over his shoulder as he climbed the stairs, bypassing completely the closed door of his old room where the portrait of Phinneas Nigulles stood by the bedside. He sank down on Sirius’ old bed with a grateful sigh, pulled the blankets up to his chin, and fell asleep the minute his head hit the pillow. 

His body felt smooth, powerful, and fluid. For one heart stopping moment, Harry feared he was dreaming again; possessing Nagini. Then he realized, dimly, that while he may be dreaming, he was definitely not possessing Voldemort’s snake. And this dream was different. He relaxed instinctively when he realized it was no longer burning hot. Instead his body felt sleek, refined; protected by something large and leathery. Harry dimly heard someone screaming, but he was far far too comfortable to concern himself with it. Instead, he snuggled deeper into the smooth fabric that seemed to surround him and drifted back to sleep.

In the morning, he woke instantly. Feeling, for the first time in a long time, refreshed and well rested. He smiled to himself as he padded barefoot to the bathroom; yawning and stretching and scratching at his itching scalp. He ran his hands through his hair absently, noticing with sleepy unconcern that his hair was getting longer. He shrugged it off, making a mental note to get his hair cut, as he reached for his toothbrush and blobbed on some toothpaste. Harry winced slightly as he spat in the sink. Damn his gums were tender. And judging by the pink in the sink; they were bleeding as well. Grumbling about how bad luck seemed to follow him around like an omen, so, naturally, Gingivitis would tag along for a ride as well; Harry splashed water on his face and glanced uninterestedly into the mirror over the bathroom sink.

It wasn’t until he spotted the large, black, leathery wings, however, that he screamed.


End file.
